“Autumn’s been doing this thing where, while nursing, she loops her little arm around my neck, uses her chubby hand to pull my head to hers, and leaves her arm there contentedly. I’m starting to think it’s her happy place.
Not the most comfortable position for me, but I melt every. time.”

This has been so incredibly sweet. If I tried to put words to how it makes me feel, they’d fall embarrassingly short. I’m picturing those 90’s shows where – back when people wrote each other with pen and paper – the guy would be at this desk, crumbled paper all around, earnestly trying to get his feelings out. I’m surrounded my theoretical crumbled paper.

Yesterday, I sat down to rock and nurse you, thankful for the reprieve from your fussing for a minute. Feeling a little stressed out, I habitually started stroking your hair thought about all that was on my plate: how we still had to go grocery shopping before 8 p.m.; your dad wasn’t feeling well in the next room, but I really needed his help; dinner had to be made, and you had yet to nap even with me trying periodically to get you down.

*Sigh* A lot.

But then I pictured my younger, teen self getting to glimpse this moment somehow. What would she see? What would she think?

I was telling my friends today that I’m too much of an extrovert for this baby stage: “say something already!”

Seriously, I cannot *wait* for you to start talking. To have your little words filling my days in ways I can finally understand. It feels like it’s taking forever to get here but really, you’re taking your sweet time, way too fast.

It’s our 1st cold muggy day in Texas. While, it’s rained quite a bit this summer, the air was still warm, and the sun would always reappear before too long.

You let out a cry during your nap. I went to you, but hesitated a bit to see if you might settle back into sleep. Your breathing quickened so I tried to nurse you – it wasn’t working.

I took you to our chair hoping I could rock you back to sleep and continue this too-short nap.

While rocking, I recall something Elizabeth Foss wrote: about how, in answering our baby’s cry and providing it comfort, the baby learns that the caregiver is a safe place.

& I question if I’m a safe place for you: We ‘Gentle Parent’, and I’m so glad that we keep you close, respond to you, and treat you with respect. Your words and actions have meaning to us; They hold weight. And we pray that in parenting you this way – a way we believe reflects how our Heavenly Father parents us – that we’re building a solid foundation for a strong relationship with you. One that makes it easy for us to be trusted and one that’s more easily transferable to a relationship with Him.

In the stillness and quiet, I’m wondering if it’s in the back-and-forth, swaying motion; the humming; and pushing through the ache and pain, that I become that safe place. I’m so tired, and I really do wish you would just go back to sleep. But I also trust that there’s a miracle happening here:

As you’re learning that I’m a safe place, Jesus is making it so. He’s here; sourcing me and gracing us; strengthening our bond.

Tying us closer together.

You’re learning, and I’m becoming.

I love the way you perch your chubby foot on top of mine; drape your little arm across your head, over your eyes. Your breathing has steadied and your tiny weight sinks into me and as we rock.

Around 10:30 we went for a walk around the building and once my feet couldn’t take anymore I sat down on the curb while your dad paced back-and-forth, singing for at least 20 minutes. Finally, you knocked out.

O my gosh – is this what teething is like? Gahh! I can’t take it. I’m going to crack! How can we start to do this night after night? *Googles “teething” on my iPad while lying next to you in the dark* Is this even teething? What if it’s something else – and she’s suffering while I’m trying to help her with something that’s not the issue? The questions continued and the mommy-doubt that plagued me for your 1st two months of life started rearing up again.

~

Thankfully, last night actually was different. You were definitely still fussy but your dad and I started working ahead of the game and it seemed to make a difference; you didn’t get over-tired in the process. However, judging by the way things started out it looked like we would be in for it again – another hard night. But thinking the rocker might help, I asked your dad to put the legs back on and decided to give that and nursing a go. You latched on at first, but then proceeded to pop on and off to play with your toes. Apparently they were way more interesting than sleep, even while rubbing your eyes. ; ) I was tired myself but thankfully amusement won-out over frustration; you were just so cute, squealing with joy as you tried to bite your wiggling toes. Your dad and I were cracking up – as quietly as we could so you wouldn’t get excited and snap out of your sleepiness.

And then you settled into nursing, one chubby little hand covering up your right eye.

I breathed in and allowed my body to relax, realizing we were close to the end and the swaying movement was working. I looked around and tried to take it all in: soft light; warm spring weather, with a breeze drifting through; Nate unwinding close by; and me, rocking back and forth with my daughter. Man, this feels good. And right; meaningful.

And then I looked down at you, light brown mocha-colored skin. Leg draped over mine. Your weight sinking into me. That one stood out the most.

I tried mentally soaking all of it in. So sweet.

This simple moment meant so much to me. While most 24-year-olds in Austin spend their nights rocking out to music, partying, and hanging out, I spend mine rocking with you in a completely different way.

I don’t know how staring at you sleeping in your carseat can evoke so many emotions, but it does. . .

Or how much I could love your chubby feet, little toes . .

and puffy hands. . . But I do.

See, I’ve never been the kind of person who likes to slow down.

Growing up, I couldn’t stand playing board games or reading books for that very reason: slow meant boring.

But with you, it’s just the opposite, and somehow, now, “slow” translates into fascinating, captivating, awe-inspiring.

Like stopping to watch you discover the texture of a bush’s twig: you coo and grunt, and scrunch up your face, eyebrows tightly knit; squeezing it as you close and open your tiny fist. And I watch closely and laugh and kind-of hold my breath because is this really happening? Do I really get to be lucky enough – blessed enough – to catch this twig-discovery moment taking place?

. . . I do.

O Autumn, I want to memorize everything about you; have it burned into my memory with no hope of ever forgetting. Because you are extraordinary and I am painfully aware of how much I could never deserve you.

And yet here you are. Placed in my womb, my hands, my heart by a God and Father who loves us both unimaginably. Unconditionally.

Morgan Reid

I'm wife and mama learning how to love Jesus, and love on others the way He does.
::
Into crunchy and natural living; mindful parenting; social justice; and environmental advocacy. I like anything domestic (decorating, fabric arts, etc), Monet's art work, photography, ASL, and having real connections with other humans. (:
Currently living in Austin, loving all the 'weird.' Counting gifts and enjoying God. ‡
::
MBTI: xSFJ. Enneagram Type 6.